Beginnings

I always liked telling stories. I still do.

When I was little, I used to sing stories to my parents. I composed an epic tale about a man going to the store to get some skis, only to realize upon returning home, he’d forgotten poles. Oh, the horror. Luckily, a return trip to the ski store solved the dilemma. Poles were acquired, skiing commenced.

In my fractured memory, once I learned how to write, I began writing stories. It never mattered if they were any good, or if I had any talent, I just loved putting words on paper, creating narratives.

I still love that as well.

My father was a writer, wrote stories, (not in any professional setting, but that really doesn’t matter), and I wanted to be like him. It was a common theme in my early years- Following after my father. I always felt encouraged by him, and he often had time for reading my tales of adventure and science fiction. I even recall him commenting on my dialogue, saying something like “that sounds like something a space ship captain would say.”

Simple kindnesses often mean the most.

That sort of encouragement was crucial to my writing development. If he had been overly critical of my work, or dismissive, I may have stopped altogether. His enthusiasm and positive attitude inspired me. I have my father to thank for my love of writing, my desire to improve and learn.

Who was there for you at the beginning (of whatever, not necessarily writing)? Who was it said the right things, gave the correct advice, or offered that little incentive you needed to keep going? Have you thanked them? I know I don’t say it enough, those thank yous. I need to do better.

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9 responses to “Beginnings”

As a child my mother won a poetry contest but because she had my sister and I , she was unable to accept the award. Since then she has always encouraged my writing. No matter how silly it sounded she was always proud of every word I wrote.
Now I am a mother now and my daughter encourages me the same way her grandmother does. When I sing or read she gets so happy.

I also do it for myself. Yes they give me the courage I need to write but it is my power that allows me to continue on with it. I am grateful for everyone who has stood by my side.

That is a great story! It is your power for sure, a power that most likely was always there. It is wonderful that at a time when you might not have been as sure of yourself, others were. Thanks for sharing.

I hadn’t really thought about this until now, I think the first time that I was praised for my imagination and creative writing pieces was at school by one of my teachers. At the time my writing was heavily plagiarised following the general format of anything by Enid Blyton so I felt the praise was empty. They just hadn’t read the stuff I had read or else they’d have realised I was a fraud.

Writing has always been something I’ve been compelled to do despite everything and everyone. There’s never really been any positive or negative comment as a child. Now though is a different story. I meet regularly with other writers in a group called The Inkslingers and their input both praise and criticism has spurned me to continue and improve and I am full of gratitude for their input and support. 🙂

I think a great many of us writers started out ripping off someone we admired. I know I used to write the same theme in my stories over and over. Still, those tiny praises can inspire. I’ve yet to really engage in any writers groups ( no good reason, beyond that it would require me to actually make the effort), but they intrigue me. Maybe I should look into one, or else participate more in the Insecure Writer’s support group, more than the cursory way I do now.

I’ve always written technical stuff – policies, manuals, training material, but i didn’t start writing fiction until my mum died in 2012. I think that must have been the catalyst. I like to think that she’d like what I write, partly because it was me and partly that she’d find the subject matter interesting.

That is an intriguing thought, the passing of a loved one being the catalyst.

I really find more truth in reading (and writing, really) fiction. Its nature is pretense, and it seems odd to find truth in that sort of premise, but it speaks to me in ways that other sorts of writing do not. I explore more of my humanity, for good and bad, in fiction.

I think it was the fact that my parents always encouraged me toward “practical” careers (translation: not writing, English, literature, etc.) that spurred me onward in my love for all things word related. My family has since conceded that they were wrong in discouraging me, but I wonder if they had been more supportive if I’d have arrived at a different place. I need to thank them for their discouragement! 🙂